


We Dream In The Dark (For The Most Part)

by Kyele



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Falling Out of Love, Feels, M/M, Regret, Requited to Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 19:53:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5304665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Afterwards, Burr always feels guilty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Dream In The Dark (For The Most Part)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox/gifts).



> This is all Nikki's fault. She knows what she did. (Bean is also to blame.)

Afterwards, Burr always feels guilty. He tears the bonds from Hamilton as fast as he can, sometimes tearing the skin off his own fingers in his haste. His fingers cup Hamilton’s face, help work the knots out of his jaw, trace his cheekbones. He drops feather-light kisses on Hamilton’s head and murmurs _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

He’ll spend the next several hours saying two nice things for every dirty thing he’d said in the heat of passion. He’ll swear to be better next time. He’ll swear to be different.

Left unsaid is the truth. Nothing will change at all. Neither of them want it to. Kindness is wonderful in the aftermath, but it’s not what gets them off.

* * *

Hamilton is dynamic when he speaks. Compelling. Overwhelming. You can’t look away from him. Maybe later the spell breaks, maybe later you see the holes in his logic, the way everything that had sounded so reasonable at the time is actually horribly skewed, good for Hamilton and bad for everyone else. Later. When Hamilton’s speaking he’s enthralling. When he’s speaking he’s immortal. When he’s speaking he’s a God.

When he’s silent he’s an angel.

On his knees with his collar undone, his tie well knotted but no longer around his neck – around his wrists instead, hands clasped together at the small of his back. His chin tilted up. Always tilted up. Stop his mouth but you’ll never stop his pride. His face is upturned and his eyes burn defiance even as Burr silences him one thick inch at a time.

Hamilton loves his own voice. He loves even more to have it taken away. And Burr, God help him, loves to do the taking. It’s dirty and bad and wrong. Hamilton’s voice is the only thing he has sometimes. To silence him, to gag him, to put him on his knees and tell him he’ll never get his debt plan through and the banks will collapse and people will turn away when he speaks –

One day lightning will strike from the sky. One day thunder will roll up from the earth. One day Burr will pay with his life for the things he does to Hamilton in the throes of passion.

One day Hamilton will stop coming so hard that his eyes roll back into his head and he shivers and moans like a dying man.

* * *

Hamilton is afraid. So is Burr, some of the time. So is everyone who has chained their lives and their hope of immortality to this crazy insane fever-dream of a revolution. Some of the time. But for most of them there are moments without fear. Moments with friends, moments with family. Moments of hope. Moments where they look at their achievements and think _God, my God, it just might endure._

Not Hamilton. Hamilton is always afraid. No matter how much he achieves, it’s never enough. He writes like he’s running out of time. He speaks like he’s bargaining with the Devil himself. He runs after every opportunity, no matter how faint, because on some level he’s convinced that they’re _all_ faint. That he’ll spend his life chasing after will o’ wisps and die insubstantial, a ghost who will fade from history even before his body has finished rotting in the ground.

* * *

Burr feeds Hamilton his cock by inches and watches as the smaller man struggles to accommodate it all. He can see the outline of his cock as Hamilton swallows. Feel the contraction of Hamilton’s throat around the head. It makes Burr want to shove forward, force the rest in with a single powerful snap of his hips. He distracts himself by reaching out and tracing Hamilton’s wide-stretched lips. Thin and red, spit-slick and obscene, they’re the best part of Hamilton.

Except his mind. Except his clever wits and cleverer words. Except his heart –

Now Burr _does_ slide the rest of the way home. Hamilton gasps, barely heard, all the sound translating into vibrations that caress Burr’s cock. Then he moans. Hamilton’s hips stutter forward against empty air, desperate for something that isn’t coming. Burr tugs his hair instead.

“When I first met you, I thought of this,” Burr tells him, watching as Hamilton’s lashes flutter, damp with strain and emotion. “I thought of your mouth. I thought of how good it was going to feel to shut you up.”

Hamilton’s gaze is filthy, a caress in and of itself. Slow and deliberate, he contracts his own throat, swallowing around Burr.

Burr gasps. Grabs both sides of Hamilton’s head and spills, helpless, down Hamilton’s throat.

"Ask me what I stand for now, Hamilton,” he whispers.

Hamilton ruts against empty air and comes in his pants, empty at last, all the voices silent.

* * *

Hamilton stumbles off the Congress floor intoxicated and flushed with success. Burr follows him, in the grip of a jealousy he can’t quite explain. Three days ago Hamilton’s debt plan had been dead on arrival. Three days ago the Southerners had been united against it, up in arms about Northern overreach, screaming about assumption and residency and swearing to kill Hamilton on the floor of the Senate if he tried to pass his bill. Three days ago Burr had tried to speak to Hamilton in the street, tried to offer the particular brand of catharsis Hamilton had always sought from him, only to be rebuffed. Brushed aside. For the first time ever, pushed away.

And then Hamilton had gone to dinner with Madison and Jefferson and gotten what he’d needed –

(three fingers in his mouth and big pleading eyes)

Had they sat at the table like civilized men? Had they discussed their differences and found a resolution? Had the quid pro quo been as presented, the debt plan for the nation’s capitol?

(slim wrists tied to jefferson’s bed, jefferson watching with smooth detachment as madison extracts his pound of flesh)

Or had there been something more?

(madison sliding out of hamilton, watching as his seed drips from the well-used hole. jefferson with his latest notion: a phallus, but not made of ivory and not full-sized, sliding back into hamilton. keeping him open, keeping him ready, keeping him soiled, a reminder and a promise)

Burr follows Hamilton from the Congress floor until he finds the Secretary alone in his office. Hamilton turns towards him with a wide smile, but all Burr can see is betrayal. He takes Hamilton by the shoulders and presses him to the ground.

He doesn’t apologize afterwards.

* * *

Hamilton spends his life running at full speed, chasing a dream that only he can see. He’s always terrified of that dream being ripped from him. Of losing it.

Burr had used to be his solace. Burr would put Hamilton on his knees where he can’t run anymore, and tell him that everything had been lost: the revolution suppressed, their credit in ruins, their hopes lost, their necks destined for the noose at dawn. Burr would give a voice to all of Hamilton’s worse fears. In these private moments together, Burr’s had been the voice that had had power. He’d painted a picture of Hamilton’s nightmares and made it real.

And then Burr would promise Hamilton, would _swear_ to him, that even in that future, Burr still loves him.

Even if the revolution fails.

Even if the country becomes penniless.

Even if they’re reconquered.

Even if they fight another war, this time a civil war, brother against brother, North against South.

Even if Hamilton is exposed as the charlatan he always believes himself to be. Even if people spit as he passes. Even if Washington himself finally turns away from Hamilton.

Even if.

Burr will promise that none of that will ever make a difference in how he sees Hamilton. That Hamilton will always have this, this one eternal thing: that even if everything else fades, there will still be Burr.

Hamilton will smile the heartbreaking smile of someone who’s found perfect absolution.

And Burr will know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there is one thing at this world that he’s good at. One thing that he can do that no one else can. In his world of shifting positions and alliances, in his own carousel of shadows, Hamilton’s smile at the moment of release is his hope of heaven.

It’s everything to them both.

Until it isn’t.

* * *

Burr never stops loving Hamilton. When Hamilton stops loving Burr, when he goes to Madison and Jefferson for what he needs, it hurts. When Hamilton turns his words against Burr – when Hamilton screams at Burr in the streets for having won election as a Democratic Republican – when Hamilton savages Burr in the press for having finally, _finally_ taken something for his own instead of standing by silently while Hamilton takes everything for himself –

Burr feels something inside him break.

* * *

Once, a young man from the West Indies came to New York City, and met another young man. That chance meeting changed both of their lives, to say nothing of the course of a nation.

Once, a no-longer-young man from the West Indies went to New Jersey, and met another no-longer-young man who hailed from that State. Their meeting was prearranged.

* * *

(Afterwards, Burr always feels guilty.)


End file.
